


Your sex is on fire

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Other, POV Natasha Romanov, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: She has a history with men like that.  Those guys in sloppy tuxedos, leaning over the hotel bar and whispering in the bartender’s ear in voices meant to be overheard that somebody’s getting laid tonight.  She’s usually the layer.  Paid forty cents to every man’s dollar, then shoved out, swollen-lipped and on her way.
Series: Nat on Fire [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796122
Kudos: 12





	Your sex is on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

She has a history with men like that. Those guys in sloppy tuxedos, leaning over the hotel bar and whispering in the bartender’s ear in voices meant to be overheard that somebody’s getting laid tonight. She’s usually the layer. Paid forty cents to every man’s dollar, then shoved out, swollen-lipped and on her way. 

And nobody sees anything wrong with that. Just some jug-headed prostitute, headed back to the streets, her hair un-curling to a frizz about her skinny shoulders, the blades of which cut out against the slits in her backless dress. Nat has a knife strapped to her hip. But nobody knows about that. It’s pushed just far down enough in the waistline of her panties that nobody but the man who just had his dick in her pants had to any right to see.

She steels silently down an alleyway, behind a dumpster where she bends at the waist, shaky on her stilettos, and lets go of the still-glimmering champagne bubbling in her stomach. She can still taste the bubbles tickling her nose on the way down, and on the way back up. Nat cringes at the fruitiness of it all, the mistakenly sweet, bright, pale, golden raisin flavor of it. It’s supposed to be a treat. Something one drinks on a birthday, maybe on New Year’s Eve. Something that’s supposed to be celebratory. But instead it’s all gone to the sour-bitterness of bile.

After she throws up the dregs, Nat straightens up and moves confidently toward the sidewalk, searching for a taxi to hail at what seems to be dawn’s first light. No one wants to pick her up, bedraggled as she is. Nobody knows that she has the money, that her strung-out, drugged-to-the-limits self is actually as fine as fine can be. She’s sober on the inside, even if the outside tells a different story. The mascara rings under her eyes may say she’s been beaten, and badly, but it just means that she’s won. She has the intel, tucked away into the pocket on the inside of her purse, ready to be passed on to Fury the minute she has access to a cell tower and her phone. 

Nat settles for the subway, letting the automatic style consume her ticket like a vacuum sweeping the little paper out of her hand. She sits stubbornly on one of the seats, ignoring the gazes from all around her, ostensibly wondering what such a well-dressed woman is doing so bedraggled on the train at this hour of the morning. She crosses her legs tightly so no one can see what’s up there, or down there, however you want to put it. The knife ought to be protection enough. But Nat knows it’s not worthy to keep away hungry male stare.

When Nat gets off at her appointed quarters, she dodges two catcallers on her way out of the station. She ignores them plainly, sticks the memory card into her phone, and begins yammering in whatever language she can think of that she knows Nick will understand. German is probably her best bet. Then French. Maybe Russian. It’s an international district of town. No one will care if she’s not speaking English. The passersby will care more about her tottering heels than her mismatched words, so Nat sweeps them off and carries the shoes scooped on her pinky finger as she walks barefoot down the sidewalk, head down and eyes focused ahead of her. 

When she reaches the dilapidated front door of the apartment she’s staying in, Nat’s only stepped on broken glass twice. She considers it a victory, wipes her bleeding feet on the doormat, and heads inside. Nat has just enough energy to throw her body down onto the soft downy bed, and release Nick from the call, telling him that’s all she got and she’ll ring him back with more late. She shuts her eyes before darkness overtakes her, and she’s in some other place of dreams and dark shadows for an unknown number of hours until it stops and the daylight begins again.

She has a history with places like that. None of it makes her a good person. Sure, she’s skilled. Knows her place. Knows what to do in any multitude of situations. The men. The bad places. The bad memories. And despite it all, Nat knows her history is far from being completely written. 


End file.
